


Voicemail

by i_gaze_at_scully



Series: Movie night [5]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Post-ep for the Talitha Cumi/Herrenvolk arc





	Voicemail

Scully needs a long, hard run. Up a hill. In the rain. She wishes she still had access to the obstacle course at Quantico. Nothing helped clear her head like that obstacle course. She loved grunting, gritting her teeth, pushing through that sweet pain _._ She misses it. 

She laces up her sneakers and runs long and hard. Up a hill. In the rain. She lets her muscles scream in place of her voice. 

If you had asked her five years ago, before she’d ever heard of the X Files, what she imagined her life to be like now, never in her wildest dreams could she have described the events of the last few weeks. There wasn’t a movie in the world, no campfire ghost story in her memory that could have prepared her for this life she lives. _A life you choose_ , she reminds herself reflexively. She pushes the thoughts out, pushes her feet forward.

The reverberations of the asphalt shoot through her shins and she pulls an about face, heads home. No use in overdoing it. 

The answering machine blinks red as she sheds her damp zipper-up and stretches. She’s tight, she notices, especially in her neck. Her shower is scalding and quick, loosening and soothing. She towels dry and heads to the kitchen.

The Chinese takeout menu is easily accessible in the top right kitchen drawer. She used to cook more often. She can actually make a pretty mean stir-fry. After Missy got back from one of her Eastern excursions, she had bought Scully a wok and showed her how easy fried rice was. They drank copious amounts of wine as Melissa recounted her experiences, delving into everything from Eastern philosophy to the little old grandmother in Missy’s home-stay who taught her family recipes.

_“All Americans care about is money, Dana. The Chinese value life, spiritual connection,_ family _. Yikang’s family had four generations under one roof. When was the last time you called mom?”_

_“That’s not fair! I met her for brunch last weekend while you were galavanting in Beijing.”_

_"Heshun.”_

_“Heshun, fine.”_

What would Melissa think about the massive government conspiracy she may have just helped uncover? A long-running smallpox eradication program cataloguing what had to be millions of human beings. Who had access to that information? For what purpose? And what was she supposed to do about it? What should she do?

Questions bounce off the walls of her skull like popping corn and she tries to shake them out. She hits the speakerphone on her voicemail if for no other reason than to fill her ears, and hopefully the space between them, with something.

_“Hi Dana, it’s mom. Have you spoken to Bill? He and Tara are coming into town in February! Isn’t that nice? Now I know it’s a few months out, but we should try to plan something for your birthday. It isn’t every day your brother drops by. Let’s chat soon, sweetie, love you.”_

It’s not even Thanksgiving. Scully sighs, jots down “Call mom,” and deletes the message. 

_“Scully, it’s me,”_ the next message starts. Her heart skips a beat as she instinctively fears the worst. Mulder. 

Is he hurt? Did he try her cell phone? Where is her cell phone? 

_“I’m just calling… well, I thought you should know that my mom, she’s doing really well. They let her go home today. They still don’t know how… anyway, I just got off the phone with her. She’s happy to be home.”_

Scully’s heart resumes its normal rhythm and she lets out a sigh. She was surprised as anyone when Teena spontaneously recovered from the stroke that nearly took her life. She fought to get Jeremiah to the hospital, even though she hadn’t accepted–still hasn’t–the powers he claimed to possess or the story he spun. Even still, when they couldn’t get him there, she worried. 

_“So, it’s Saturday. I’ve, uh, got a couple of six packs stocked up from my last boys night with the Lone Gunmen,”_ the machine continues. _“It’s that IPA bullshit Byers can’t stop raving about, but if you drink it fast enough you can’t really tell the difference.”_

She smiles to herself and checks the clock. It’s 6 PM. She replaces the Chinese food menu and finds her cell phone. She’s dialing his number as the last of the message plays.

_“I know you’re out now, I’m sure you have plans, but if you wanna help a guy out and drink some of this crap, I’ll be in all night.”_

He answers on the first ring.

“Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me. What movie should I pick up?”


End file.
